


O Captain, My Captain

by irritating_spontaniety



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of poetry, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irritating_spontaniety/pseuds/irritating_spontaniety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the War of the Ring is over, and the forces of Sauron have been driven from Mirkwood. And then what?</p><p>A very short thing I wrote in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Captain, My Captain

 

_O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;_

_The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;_

 

The trees stood tall, their leaves were green, out of the ashes fresh saplings had grown young and tender. It had been some time since the forest floor saw sunlight, since it had grown flowers. Too long had the Woodland Realm been under the oppression of Sauron, but now the darkness was lifted, and the forest once again knew spring. The wood-elves rejoiced; their home was Mirkwood no more, it was now _Eryn Lasgalen_ \- Wood of the Greenleaves, as it should be.

 

The war was won. They’d survived rule of shadow, ruin of fire, and the forces of Dol Goldur. For many years the Silvan elves lived in peace, but now with the Third Age of Middle Earth done, and the Age of Men upon them, the strength of elves was spent, and they looked west to beyond the sea.

 

Though the forest now flourished, every river, every bough full of life, the Woodland realm was emptier than ever. Everyday, bands of elves trickled from the wilderlands to make the journey west. Their population declined steadily, and those who remained became isolated and secretive. In a few centuries men would begin to question the existence of elves, and in a few more they would cease to remember. But this was not that time. One last host of elves was departing _Eryn Lasgalen_. Their horses were fed and watered, and packs of lembas were prepared for the trip, but they would not leave, not yet, for Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, their king, had chosen to stay behind.

 

“My lord, please reconsider,” they cried, “won’t you come with us to the Havens?”

 

Despite their pleas and attempts at persuasion, the Elvenking said, “No. You have all fought long and hard, suffered much and sacrificed more. Middle Earth is at peace, and you no longer have ties to this world. Go! Sail! And live out the days in bliss in the Undying Lands.”

 

“And what of you?” they asked, “Why do you remain?”

 

“For three millennia I have ruled this realm. I am its king and its protector. Its caverns echo with my enchantments, and its trees still sing my songs.” He sighed. “No, I will not leave. My spirit will remain here till the end of days. I have become as much a part of these lands as they have of me.”

 

The wood-elves understood that nothing they could say would sway their king. It was with heavy hearts that they knelt one last time, as a final farewell. When they rose and marched through the woods they sang of starlight and the sea, as they often had in the Elvenking’s halls.

 

 

_The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,_

_While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring..._

 

Who knows how much time passed since then. The trees fell into a deep slumber. Save for the occasional hunting party, the forest rarely beheld the presence of men, and the name Wood of the Greenleaves was long forgot by mortal tongue.

 

One day a lone traveller found his way into the woods. Forest of Dartmoor, he called it, and he cursed the name, for he was lost and the forest was large. He was in an area where plants grew thick, and foliage hid much of the sky. Little did this traveller know, it used to be a clearing; the trees that grew so densely around him were once bright green, tender shoots. The shrubbery and vines at his feet were once seeds buried under a bed of ash. As he struggled through the woods his foot hit a stone, and he stumbled and fell upon it. It was strange, the stone, it felt large and oddly flat, and it was so ensconced in moss and vines that he hadn’t initially seen it. He was about to get up and brush himself off to continue his blind trek through the woods when he saw on a small patch of uncovered stone what looked like an engraving. The man was no stranger to curiosity- it was what got him lost in the first place. He took out a pocket knife and scraped away the moss.

 

The stone was white beneath it’s mossy coat, and on it was three lines of engravings, written in some foreign tongue, its script elegant and curling. It was no language the traveller knew, and even if he did he probably could not have read the words. Years had weathered the stone down, and the engravings, though deep, were worn and faded.

 

He stood to go, glancing at the stone one last time, but before he could take a single step a sparrow leapt from a branch in front of him, and flew into the forest, singing in it’s bright, clear tones. The traveller chalked it up to fatigue and spending too much time alone in the forest, but he thought he heard the bird sing, _“Here lies Thranduil, son of Oropher. The last king of elves.”_

 

A shiver passed through his body and he suddenly felt the age of the forest around him. He followed the sparrow through the clearing, and through the woods, all the while listening to it sing tales of lost days and lost peoples, and of a far kingdom beneath the trees.

 

 

_...Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread,_

_Walk the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead._

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. Hope you enjoyed it. Comments are always welcome.
> 
> Thanks to my friend who made me watch Dead Poet's Society and got this poem stuck in my head. I couldn't sleep, so I decided to play around with it a bit.
> 
> All characters and locations etc. are own by Professor Tolkien.
> 
> "O Captain, My Captain" is by Walt Whitman.


End file.
